Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

by Jaye Watson

  Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

  A Novel Byte Mystery

  by

  Jaye Watson

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2007

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Judith B. Glad

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-026-7

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-026-3

  Cover art and design by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

  "You're neglecting me," the old man said. "That's no way to stay in my will. All I have to do is call Jared and he'll be here with my lawyer."

  For a minute there he thought Emaline was going to answer back. Her mouth firmed, something her spine never seemed to do, and something like hatred glared from her eyes. In the next instant he wondered if he'd imagined that short flash of rage, because her usual placating smile trembled on her lips and her downcast eyes hid any rebellious thoughts she might have harbored.

  "I'm sorry, Grandad. I haven't intended to. Tell you what, I'll take the afternoon off and make you something special for tonight. How's that?"

  He didn't let himself smile. "About time. I haven't had a good home-cooked meal for weeks. A body gets damned tired of broiled chicken and rabbit food."

  "You know the doctor said--"

  "Hang it all, girl, I don't care what the doctor said. I want some pot roast with gravy and some real mashed potatoes, the creamy kind with a few lumps here and there. And green beans, cooked with real bacon, not that texturated soybean pap you use."

  "Then that's what I'll fix you. Now, I've got to get to work. You know Dr. Burton doesn't like it when I'm late." She made sure his coffee-cup was filled--with decaffeinated coffee, damn it--and set the TV remote on his chair-side table. "There now, you're set until Mrs. Forrester gets here."

  * * * *

  He leaned back in satisfaction as she carried a pie into the dining room. "That's more like it. I love a good pie," His mouth watered in anticipation. "I hope it's not one of those cardboard things from the freezer."

  "No, Grandad, I made this myself. It's cherry, and I used Grandma's recipe. Would you like some ice cream with it?"

  Tempted, he gave it a moment's thought. She only allowed him ice cream twice a week--doctor's orders. "No, just give me an extra large piece of pie. God knows I don't get a treat like this often."

  "I'm sorry. It's just that after a day in the lab, there's not much time--" She took a deep breath. "Mrs. Forrester does her best."

  "Bah! All she thinks about is low-fat, low calorie, low taste. Won't even give me ketchup. Too much salt, she says. How the hell can a man eat his cabbage without ketchup?" Reminded, he brought up another bone of contention. Yesterday she gave me a poached egg for my lunch. I told her I wasn't gonna eat poached eggs. Sunny side up, that's how eggs are supposed to be cooked. And that damned woman told me I'd eat it poached or go without."

  "She's only following the doctor's orders, Grandad."

  "And I'm paying her, so she can damn well follow my orders. Or she'll find herself on the street."

  Her lips thinned, as if she were biting back words.

  He ignored her, watched as she cut the pie into quarters. She lifted one piece onto a plate, and the blood-red juice spread slowly. Licking his lips, he let himself anticipate that first tart taste, the way the rich pastry would dissolve on his tongue. He picked up his fork.

  Emaline sat, but she didn't take any pie. "I overdid it on the pot roast," she said, in response to his raised eyebrow. "Besides, you know cherry pie isn't my favorite."

  He smacked his lips. "All the more for me."

  "I hope you enjoy it, Grandad." She watched as he cut the point off the pie slice, lifted it, dripping to his mouth. "I worked hard to make it just to your taste."

  As he pushed the fork between his lips, he sniffed. "Overdid it a bit on the almond flavor, didn't you?"

  "Did I? It seemed like just enough when I was measuring it."

  He chewed. "Tastes all right, though." The tart cherries puckered him up a bit, just the way he remembered. It took him back to his youth, when his Bethany had served him pie for breakfast, dinner and supper, like a good wife ought.

  These modern folks didn't understand pie, he thought, not for the first time. Called it dessert. In his day pie was a part of the meal, like meat, spuds and bread. He cut off another bite.

  "That almond's really strong," he said, as he got another whiff of it.

  "Probably because it was fresh." She fiddled with her napkin. "I'm glad you mentioned a real home cooked meal. It was good, wasn't it?"

  He nodded and took in the second bite. Chewed. "Good pastry. You've a light touch." As he swallowed, he realized that the cherries had a hot, bitter aftertaste. Getting old was pure hell. Nothing tasted like it ought to, and it took a lot more spices to make an impression. Maybe his taster was wearing out. Or going bad on him.

  "I thought about what you said this morning," Emaline began, as he forked up a third bite. "I'm sorry you feel neglected, Grandad. Today I made up my mind you'd never feel that way again. So from now on, things are going to be different."

  He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. She knew which side her bread was buttered on, sure enough. "See that they are," he told her, determined not to soften his stance. Hadn't he learned long ago that folks didn't do anything from the pure goodness of their hearts? They needed the carrot on the end of the stick, just like a recalcitrant mule. Emaline's carrot was this house and his investments. As long as she kept him happy, he'd make sure her cousin Jared wouldn't get his hands on it.

  Damned puppy. No family feeling at all. Only came around when he wanted something. Not that he wanted Jared to inherit. The lad was a wastrel, and he'd go through the estate like a hot knife through butter. Everything I worked for would be gone in a matter of months--if not weeks. Emaline won't waste it.

  The girl might mutter and frown, but she took good care of him. And she was thrifty.

  But she's only going to inherit if she takes care of me. Good care.

  For some reason, the almond smell was stronger in the next bite of pie. Damn nose. Is it going bad on me too? The flaky pastry still melted on his tongue, but the cherries seemed a little off. He swallowed and again tasted that hot bitterness. His throat tightened, like it was sore, and his breath seemed to catch in his chest.

  Emaline leaned forward. "Is something wrong, Grandad?"

  He shook his head. "Fine. I'm fine. Good pie." To prove his words, he took another bite, a nice chunk of the outer crust with a big, fat cherry sitting on it. This time the almond odor almost choked him; it sure did make him dizzy.

  Fear caught him in sharp talons. Am I having a heart attack?

  Impossible. My heart's strong. The doctor said so, just last week. It's just the rest of me that's wearing out. He chewed and swallowed, determined not to give in to this momentary weakness.

  His vision blurred and he shoved the plate away. "Had enough. I need coffee."

  "Oh! I forgot." Emaline jumped to her feet. "Be right back." She disappeared into the kitchen.

  As he for
ced himself to relax, the feeling of pressure in his chest went away. His head ached though, like he'd had too much to drink. "Ha! Like they'd let me have more than a sip of whisky."

  By God, he resented the way that Forrester woman and the doctor--young whippersnapper!--rationed out him pleasures. He hadn't had a good cigar in years, and the meager one- ounce shot of whiskey they let him have three times a week was hardly enough to give a man a good taste.

  "Bethany? Where's my coffee?" No, not Bethany. Bethany's dead and gone, these many years. Wally? Then he remembered, and the pain was new again. His son was gone too, drowned trying to cross the Columbia Bar in too small a boat. There was only one left of his blood now. Only one.

  A girl. Em...Emily? Something else...Emaline? "Emaline? Where's my coffee?"

  She came through the door, carrying the coffee carafe. "Right here, Grandad. But first, let's see if you can't finish your pie. Here. Let me help you."

  Cherry pie. His favorite. He'd never left cherry pie on his plate in his life. When she forked up a good-sized bite, he opened his mouth. Just the way I like it. Nice and juicy. As he chewed, sweet juice trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  The light in the room seemed to dim. Damn power company. They hadn't given good service since that Enron thing.

  He swallowed, and this time the bitterness burned, all the way to his belly. The lights dimmed more, until he could hardly see Emaline, smiling at him.

  But he heard her.

  "I hope you like your pie, Granddad. I made it special, just for you."

  * * * *

  "He was fine this afternoon. I've been here since about two, and he was fine until just after dinner."

  "You were here..." Detective Jordan rubbed his chin. She heard the rasp of his whiskers against his callused fingertips. "You're not usually here?"

  "No, I work at BioLogic Labs." At his raised eyebrow, she said, "We do DNA sequencing and genetic matching."

  "I've heard of them. Out in Beaverton, aren't they?"

  "Raleigh Hills, actually. It's about a half-hour drive, but I usually take the bus."

  "Hmmm." He turned on his heel, his sleepy eyes taking in the sideboard with its antique compote full of artificial fruit, the rubyglass sconces, the puddled velvet swags over mullioned windows. "Fancy," he said, as if he'd never seen anything quite like it.

  "My grandfather disliked change," she told him. "He wouldn't allow us to redecorate. This is exactly how the house was when my grandmother was alive."

  "Your grandmother?" More scratching. "When did she...pass away?"

  "She died nearly twenty years ago." Despite herself, Emaline stressed the word. Grandmother had not 'passed away'. She died. She was dead. Gone.

  So were Mama and Dad. All gone.

  She was the only one left.

  "So you only have a child's memories of her." His voice was casual, not quite asking a question.

  She could have kissed him. Thinking she couldn't remember a woman twenty years dead.

  Then she remembered he was a cop.

  "I remember my grandmother well," she said, "I was thirty-one when she died."

  He could get her records. Why should she lie to him?

  Besides, he had to be at least her age, if not older. Look at his gray hair. At the pouches under his eyes, that made him look like a basset -in-training.

  That made him look interested, comfortable, sympathetic.

  Careful. He probably cultivates that look, so people confess their youthful indiscretions to him without his even asking.

  "You say your grandfather had high blood pressure. Anything else?"

  "The blood pressure was under control with medication. He had an aneurysm, but the doctor said that at his age it was less risky than the surgery. And prostate cancer. The slow kind."

  "Hmmm."

  She wanted to scream at him. What the dickens did 'hmmm' mean? "Doctor Rogers said he didn't understand why Grandad was still alive. Most of his patients..." She realized she was babbling and fell silent.

  "He was ninety-three, you said?"

  "Ninety-four in five months. He was really proud of that. No one in his family had ever lived past ninety before." As she spoke, she recalled how Grandad had celebrated his ninety-first birthday.

  "I'll not make it to a hundred," he'd said, "but by God, ninety-one's worth crowing about." He'd demanded whisky that night, and she'd given him the bourbon bottle, only three-quarters empty.

  It should have killed him, if Dr. Hedley had been right about the effects of alcohol on his fragile system.

  He'd had a hangover the next morning. That was all.

  "Ordinarily I wouldn't have been the one to respond, but I was in the neighborhood, so they asked me to stop by. The medical examiner will be in touch, probably tomorrow morning." More chin scratching. "Purely a formality."

  "There won't be an autopsy?"

  "Not unless you request it. An old man, one with medical complications, waste of money. The taxpayers only pay for it when there's evidence of a homicide. I don't see any here."

  "Good heavens, no."

  She felt the pressure of Gladys Humboldt's arm across her shoulders, and wanted to thank her neighbor for coming to her defense, even if unnecessary.

  "Mr. Banister was not the world's most friendly sort, and he certainly wasn't easy to get along with, but Emaline never complained. I've know her since she was a young woman--"

  I am a young woman, Emaline wanted to scream, but she knew she wasn't. Not at fifty two.

  "She isn't like these women who devote all their lives to aging parents," Gladys went on. "Emaline has a life of her own. She only moved in with Mr. Banister when he started forgetting things, like eating and bathing. And she's making a good living, so she didn't need to share a house with him. I tell you, Detective, sometimes I wondered how she put up with the old man, he was so cranky."

  "Not with me," Emaline demurred. "Grandad was hardly ever cranky with me."

  "Because you gave him whatever he wanted," Gladys said. "But that's not all bad. I imagine you saved quite a bit, living here with him. And you had plenty of respite, what with hiring someone to be with him all day, every day."

  "You didn't take care of him?" Detective Jordan asked. "But you lived here?"

  "A nurse comes in every day, except Sunday," she told him. "Between Grandad's pension and my income, we could afford full time care for him."

  "But you were with him at night?"

  "Most of the time. I usually had someone in on Friday nights, so I could go out with my friends." She looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not a particularly sociable person, Detective. One night out a week is plenty for me. Particularly since I am out ten hours a day, at work."

  He raised his hands, as if to ward her off. "Calm down, Ms. Banister. I'm just trying to get a picture of what his life was like. This isn't even a formal investigation. I'm just giving the M.E. a hand, since he's tied up in court today."

  She bit her tongue. What was it Grandma used to say? 'Least said, soonest mended?'

  The less she said to Detective Jordan, the better. Then there would be no need to fix anything after the fact.

  With one last look around the dining room, he rocked back onto his heels, teetered a moment, and stood straight. "I don't think I have any more questions, Ms. Banister. I'll tell the medical examiner that in my opinion, your grandfather's death was natural, and there's no suspicion of foul play."

  She forced herself to look appropriately sober. "Thank you, Detective. I...I'm not quite sure what comes next. Relatives to call, and..." She buried her face in her hands. "Oh, lord, I have to tell them all. And funeral arrangements..."

  He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Plenty of time for that tomorrow. Get some sleep. You'll be able to cope better in the morning."

  Gladys came up behind her and again laid an arm across her shoulder. "He's right, sweetie. Get some rest first, then you can deal with all the details." She squeezed, "I'll help."

  Emaline s
aw them out, first Detective Jordan, and then Gladys. After she closed the door after her neighbor, she leaned against it and took a deep breath. God! I am exhausted. I thought they'd never leave.

  She locked the door and slowly made her way upstairs. Once in her bedroom she reached, out of habit, for the baby monitor on her bedside stand.

  One finger on the switch, she paused. I don't need this tonight. I won't ever need this again. No more would she have to sleep lightly, waiting to hear a guttural call, a thud and clatter of his walker, a pain-filled moan as he pulled himself out of bed and made his slow way to the bathroom.

  She was alone in the house. All alone.

  * * * *

  Emaline kept her gaze on the flowers at the foot of the coffin. She hated open-casket funerals, but Grandad had made it clear he wanted one. She didn't know why. Just seven of his friends were here. The rest were all dead. Hadn't she taken him to their funerals, time and again, over the past ten years?

  The big room was nearly empty. Only Jared sat beside her in the front pew. They were the last remaining relatives of John William Banister. Her three girlfriends, Amy, Jerri, and Marty, would have come, but she'd asked them not to. She'd rather see them Friday night, when she didn't have to pretend a sorrow she didn't feel. Dr. Burton and his wife were here, as was Mrs. Forrester, the weekday caregiver. She was weeping quietly. Emaline was certain her tears were genuine. A nice lady. I wish I had her patience. Her tolerance.

  I wish I'd cared as much for Grandad as she did.

  As the minister ended his short speech, the door at the back of the room opened. Unable to resist, Emaline glanced over her shoulder. Detective Jordan! Oh my God! She knew, from having read hundreds of murder mysteries, that the police often attended funerals in hope of seeing someone acting suspiciously guilty. She turned back and clasped her hands together in her lap. Stay cool, she told herself. You've nothing to fear.

  Randall Jacobs stood to give the eulogy. Emaline didn't listen as the old man, his voice choked with tears, spoke of a friendship that had endured three-quarters of a century. He didn't have to live with Grandad, didn't have to listen to him complain about the least thing.